


have we paid our debt in heartbreak?

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Longing, Pining, the unendable angst of unsaid words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:11:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: It might be the last time he sees her.~A missing scene. Jon bids Sansa goodbye before the long night.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 41
Kudos: 174





	have we paid our debt in heartbreak?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiya/gifts).



> This fic is for Jiya, who generously donated money to coronavirus relief efforts and commissioned this fic. You're the best, Jiya!

“I’ll be alright,” he tells her, and tastes the lie on his tongue, bitter as ash. He flexes his burned hand at his side, the only indication of his frayed nerves, and watches her shadowed eyes follow the movement before he even realizes he’s made it. She knows his gestures better than anyone alive, after all. “I’ll stay as safe as I can—and we will _win,_ now that we have the men and the dragons to do it.”

Sansa presses her lips together, and looks away from him. He should not notice it, but she is radiant in the firelight—more beautiful than any woman he’s ever known, even unhappy as she is now. Jon wishes _he_ could look away as well, to spare him from the pain twisted on her face, but he can’t, not with the possibility that this may be one of the last times he sees her. He needs to press every memory of her in his mind, keep it safe. Keep _her_ safe. 

“What if it has all been for nothing?” she asks, voice dangerously soft. He can hardly hear it over the crackling of the flames. “The dragons, selling the North to Daenerys for her men and her weapons...what if it ends with us marching south as soldiers in the Night King’s army?”

“It won’t be,” Jon declares fiercely. “I won’t let it be for nothing. The Night King _will_ die when he marches on Winterfell, or I—”

“Or _what?”_ Sansa snaps, and oh, her eyes are _blazing_ when she turns back to him. “What _will_ you do, Jon, if you see that the battle is lost and the Night King is within your reach? Don’t lie to me and say that you’ll be alright and stay _safe._ I know you, Jon, better than anyone else. I know you’ll sacrifice yourself if you think it can save everyone.”

Jon had known this was coming. He and Sansa have been toeing the line around one another for the past few days, both determined to keep the peace. It had felt to Jon like a dance on eggshells, with carefully rehearsed steps, stiff and cold, and partly his fault—even Arya noticed his distance from all of them after what Sam told him in the crypts. He’s almost relieved that Sansa is angry with him now, that in a moment they may both be angry with each other, if only to shatter the spell between them—that at least if this is the last he sees of Sansa, it will be like _this,_ flushed and real. 

Jon has, against his will, always thought Sansa beautiful when she’s angry. It’s one of the notions that creeps in through the side of his mind, one that he can’t help thinking. He’s always ashamed of himself when it registers, a moment later, _who_ he’s thinking it about...but tonight, Jon holds on to it. 

She’s beautiful. She’s angry with him. He loves her. 

It might be the last time he sees her.

“I will do everything in my power to stay alive,” Jon argues. “But if I have to sacrifice myself to kill him, if I know it will keep you _safe,_ then of course I will.” 

“Don’t you _dare,_ Jon Snow,” Sansa says, and pushes away from him. She paces when she’s agitated, like a trapped animal. He can see the rise and fall of her chest, and her steps are tight. A controlled explosion. A wolf in a too-small cage. “Don’t you dare leave—don’t leave me with this _mess._ We got into this together, or have you forgotten? We’ll leave it together as well.” 

At his stricken expression, she adds on, acidly, “Alive.”

He wants to say, _You will be fine without me, after a time. You have the North, and the lords would defend you to their last breaths. You have Arya and Bran, and Theon, even._ He remembers how she’d looked at Theon, earlier tonight, at the tables. She'd been softer then, soft in a way he hasn’t seen in a long time. She’d smiled at Theon over a bowl of soup, and Jon’s chest had squeezed, in a half-mortifying jealousy. 

He remembers the way she’d smiled at him, the first time he’d seen her again. _Gods,_ how he wishes they’d have more time. Jon had wasted it all, in his confusion and pain over the news Sam had delivered. He’d hated himself for staying away, then, and found Sansa on her way to her chambers.

 _My sister,_ he tells himself, and feels the familiar shame burn. Then, a moment later, he corrects himself: _My cousin._ He wants to tell her, more than he wants to tell Daenerys, what they truly are to one another, but he holds his tongue. Better not to tarnish their father’s memory— _her_ _father’s,_ his brain corrects viciously, _not yours, never yours_ —not on the eve of a battle such as this.

“Sansa,” he says instead, stepping into her space. She stops pacing immediately, and Jon’s hand comes to rest on her elbow. The leather of her dress is cold under his palm, and Jon’s thumb rubs against the fabric absently, warming it. Her expression remains shuttered, determined to hold on to the anger. “At this moment, nothing is more important to me than the safety of the people in this castle.” _Your safety, your legacy here in the North._ There is so much Jon wishes he could say to her. “And I can make no promises about surviving. I won’t ever lie to you, even if it may be a kindness. But I swear, I will do my best to come back.” 

Her eyelids flutter closed for a moment, and he can feel the tension melt away slowly under his touch. This close, Jon can see every freckle, every lash, the circles under her eyes. She hasn’t slept well. She’d told him, once, back in Castle Black, that sleep eludes her most nights. _I dream of Ramsay, Joffrey, Cersei. They make me scared to close my eyes._

“You need to rest,” Jon says, and they’re so close that he can see his words stir the loose hairs that have escaped her braids. Slowly, he allows himself to raise his hand, pushes her the tendrils out of her face with his fingers, tuck them behind her ear. Sansa leans against the touch, and Jon’s heart hammers in his chest. Softly, he tells her, “You worry too much, Sansa. When was the last time you tried to sleep?”

“Don’t do that to me,” she whispers, and her eyes open. A shock of blue, against the warm red glow of the fire. “Don’t treat me like a child you have to take care of. The way you do with _her.”_

He ignores the words, clearly meant to start another argument. Instead of rising to the bait, Jon smiles ruefully at her. “I would never make that mistake. I know better.”

Between one breath and the next, Sansa presses past his hands and her arms are around him. Jon returns the embrace without thinking. He hears her breathing louder than he’s ever heard anything, and presses his face into her hair. 

A week after they’d first arrived, Daenerys had told Jon that his sister was so polite that she was almost cold. She’d masked the comment as a jest, but he’d seen the confusion on her face in the yard, how she’d expected the Lady of Winterfell to fall to her knees, tears of gratitude in her eyes. She hadn’t met a lady the likes of Sansa before—cold and wrapped in courtesy. 

Jon knows the truth of it, though, that Sansa is warm when she feels _safe,_ when her walls are truly down. The moments are few and far between, but when she allows him through, Jon wants nothing more than to hold on to her, and let her peel the horrors away, forget for a moment what the world has done to her, to them. 

He kisses the side of her head, where the fragrant skin meets hair. Inhales her smell. Imprints it all in his memory. When he lifts his lips from her, they burn. 

He feels her shake, so slightly that he might have imagined it. Then, so slowly that Jon barely believes it’s happening, she turns her head, and her lips skim his cheek. 

“Be safe,” she whispers against his skin. “Don’t die out there. The North needs you.”

 _Only the North?_ he wonders. Aloud, he says, “You’ll be safe in the crypts. You have to be. The North needs you too.”

When he finally loosens her arms and steps away, the air between them feels changed. Fragile. He cannot bear the look in Sansa’s eyes. 

Jon clears his throat. “I need to go.”

“Jon…”

“I’ll check on the crypts. I wanted to visit L—Father’s statue. Before the battle.”

He can see the muscles in her throat jump in the flickering of the fire as she swallows. “Alright,” she says softly. “I’ll see you when this is over.” 

He doesn’t want to go. Jon lets the silence fill the space between them a moment longer. He has to leave now, or he never will. 

He flexes his burned hand. “I’ll see you when this is over,” he echoes, a promise he can’t make. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving kudos/a comment!


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